In every crevice;
We have never twined us
Like wreaths round fruitage.
Peer.
Not in vain your birth, however;—
but still and serve as manure.
A Sighing in the Air.
We are songs;
Thou shouldst have sung us!—
A thousand times over
Hast thou cowed us and smothered us.
Down in thy heart's pit
We have lain and waited;—
We were never called forth.
Thy gorge we poison!
Peer.
Poison thee, thou foolish stave!
Had I time for verse and stuff?
[Attempts a short cut.
Dewdrops.
[Dripping from the branches.]
We are tears
Unshed for ever.
Ice-spears, sharp-wounding,
We could have melted.
Now the barb rankles
In the shaggy bosom;—
The wound is closed over;
Our power is ended.
Peer.
Thanks;—I wept in Rondë-cloisters,—
None the less my tail-part smarted!
